Raison D'etre
by Lycorise
Summary: To love the Queen in this time of war, is to fight a battle that can never be won. [Queen Ayrenn/Altmer Hero from ESO trailers] "A true champion is also history's pawn, and history is a cruel and unfeeling master."


**A/N:** I've taken a lot of liberty to rearrange the timeline, so it won't follow ESO's sequence of events strictly.

Ending is based on the quest, "The Moonlit Path".

* * *

In the throne room gathers the most powerful Altmer of the Summerset Isles: the Council and nobility, the makers of law and generals of war, the masters of economy and the magical arts. Each holds the power to sway their spheres of influence with a few choice words, but all are silent as they stand before the throne in neat rows, listening raptly to the sole voice ringing strongly through the great hall.

At the age of 25, the heir apparent Ayrenn is easily one of the youngest among those present, but bears her mantle of authority as if she were born wearing it upon her shoulders. She is compelling, magnetic, as she espouses the need for unity – and not just among the Altmer, no. If they are to stand strong, and stand _firm_ against the corrupted Imperial leadership, they will welcome their Bosmer and Khajiit brethren into the fold – into this 'Dominion' – and stand as one.

You keep your gaze focused on her, following Ayrenn's slow circuit across the dais, watching the conviction in her eyes as she speaks of the Aldmeri Dominion and its lofty goals. Like everyone else, you do not twitch or cringe at the prospect of an alliance with the wood elves or cat people. Instead, you pay undivided attention to her, heart swelling along with the passionate crescendo of her voice, which draws closer as she moves down the steps from the throne, to stand with her audience.

She walks among her people with ease, eyes roving from face to face in scrutiny, until they land on yours. Ayrenn stops before you, regarding a proud commander of her army with respect.

"The time has come, Battlereeve," she intones, drawing all eyes to you. "Will you take your place by my side, and bring the rightful order back to Tamriel?"

You know what to do. It has been predetermined; Ayrenn's control has been set in stone, days before this address. She has conferred with each Altmer individually and won their hearts in private, earning their favour and securing her victory long before she even stepped foot into the throne room. Already, she has proven greater finesse and charisma than her late-father or brother – who had been close to claiming the throne for himself before her unexpected return.

To you, the choice is clear. You hold a fist over your heart, and bow to her. "I am yours to command, Your Majesty."

You keep yourself bent low in deference, until you feel someone clasp onto your shoulders and guide you back up. It is Ayrenn, scrutinising you with a small but triumphant smile on her face. You look around and realise that all the rest have followed your example, bowing low to their new ruler – except Prince Naemon and Lady Estre, but you are wise enough to feign ignorance.

Ayrenn's hands clutch at your shoulders just a little tighter. "Thank you."

* * *

Queen Ayrenn doesn't waste any time in unifying the Aldmeri Dominion, leaving the myriad of tedious crowning ceremonies behind. She dons the crown in a single procession, then dives headfirst into politics – with you in tow. Whether she chose you for your noteworthy campaigns against the Maormer, or just because she remembers you from the address, you do not know. But she appoints you to her personal guard, serving alongside Battlereeve Urcelmo to ensure her safety as she travels between Summerset, Valenwood, and Elsweyr.

You guard the Queen with your life, resolved to let no harm fall upon her while you still draw breath. Your task, however, grows a little complicated when the Queen displays her willingness to jump into battle herself. She is not content to stay behind her guards' blades, and will fight alongside her soldiers to keep even the lowest commoners safe.

 _'They are my people,'_ she had declared, when you tried to hold her back from repelling the Maormer, who had invaded the small seaside city during her visit. _'You swore to stand by me, Battlereeve. Will you stand with me now?'_

You did – fighting back the Maormer, watching over the Queen in the thick of battle, keeping pace and harmonising with her nimble sword dance. And you still do, as you travel ever farther from home with the Queen's entourage – fighting with Ayrenn not as bodyguard and queen, but as equal warriors, protecting her as she protects _you_.

It takes you by surprise, after an encounter with assassins in the deserts of Elsweyr. After scanning the area for more threats, you take a grateful breath, lowering your sword as you turn around – only to feel the sharp edge of a blade hovering just before your neck. The moment of panic passes, and your reflexive grip on your sword relaxes when you realise it is the Queen, holding you hostage with a smile on her lips.

"Letting your guard down?" Ayrenn asks.

Despite the playful lilt in her voice, you straighten yourself as best you can with the blade at your neck. "A moment of negligence, Your Majesty. I apologise for my–"

You stop when Ayrenn barks a laugh and lowers her sword, slapping you once on the back.

"Relax," she says, waving her hand at Urcelmo in the affirmative when he suggests moving on. She gestures at you to walk with her, and you fall in step beside the Queen. "I just wanted to discuss your combat style."

You straighten your shoulders involuntarily, squaring up to take the criticism. "Yes?"

"I think it is impressive," Ayrenn says, and you exhale quietly in relief. "Your mastery in the school of destruction is commendable."

"Thank you, my Queen."

"But," she adds. "Your confidence in magic makes you slack in close quarters combat. I've noticed that you focus on keeping your foes _away_ from you. And it is a reasonable tactic, do not misunderstand – but it has made you…overlook the tightness of your swordplay." She smiles when you cock your head in question. "Shall I demonstrate?"

She doesn't give you time to think, and you just barely block her blade with your own, before she cuts into your waist. The rest of the entourage stops in their tracks and turn towards you, but she pays them no heed as she advances on you again and again. You're hard-pressed to keep up with her agile sword swings, blocking them in _just_ the nick of time, until she lunges and brings the impromptu bout to a halt – her blade is at your neck once again, your hand glowing green just below her arm. Too slow – if she'd wanted to take your head, she would've done so before you could blast her away with magic.

Ayrenn tilts her head forward, and you give her the answer she seeks, "I see. Thank you."

"So polite," she teases, twirling her sword idly as she continues onward again, the entourage moving along with her. You trail behind her as she says, "Urcelmo, how about a little match as well? I must keep my guards on their toes."

"Ah." Urcelmo turns back with an uncertain, sheepish look. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I have to take point and watch for trouble ahead. But thank you for the offer."

Ayrenn chuckles, then slides her blade into its sheath smoothly. She looks at you and says, "We should spar in the future."

You hesitate; was that an order or a casual suggestion? "It would be an honour, Your Majesty."

For some reason, disappointment flits across her face, before she schools her features back into a cordial mien. Ayrenn nods, then walks ahead of you without another word, leaving you to watch her back – as is your duty.

* * *

She does spar with you as the journey goes on. In fact, she spars exclusively with you – Urcelmo has shown his unwillingness to go toe-to-toe with the Queen, and the rest of the guards are glad that she hasn't turned her eye upon them. _'Thank the gods,'_ they say, after you return from yet another exercise with bruises all over your body. _'And thank you for keeping her attention off us.'_

You feel amused by their sentiment, and continue to 'protect' them from the Queen without complaint. The sparring sessions are enlightening, even if painful – Ayrenn doesn't hold back, and after she makes you kiss the ground a handful of times, you stop being so cautious with her as well. Mostly. You make sure not to give her any visible wounds, striking her only in areas she can cover up with her clothes, so the Altmer queen wouldn't look like she was waylaid by bandits. Your thoughtfulness still keeps you _slightly_ slower than your best speed, but it seems to satisfy Ayrenn well enough.

She starts sharing stories of her travels while you sit together after your sparring sessions, waiting for the burn in your muscles to fade. You spend most of the time listening raptly, as you always do when she speaks. You smile when she recalls a ridiculous incident, nod gravely when she laments the suffering she has witnessed, and blush in embarrassment when she throws you off with the mention of bear wrestling, then knocks your head with a grin. The familiarity is unexpected, but unsurprising. Ayrenn has shown distaste for excessive formality time and again, and for her to treat a loyal guard as a friend… It feels natural.

And you start to miss the closeness of that friendship, when the Queen manages to pull the Aldmeri Dominion together within the year. She returns to a rousing welcome in Alinor, taking little time to celebrate her success, before creating the Thalmor. This new governing body of the Dominion – consisting of Canonreeves, Treethanes, and Chieftains – soon occupies much of her time, affording her little room for reprieve.

You stand by her, watching as she hurries from one meeting to another, tending to the needs of not one nation, but three. Part of you aches as the buoyant, jovial air about her slowly disappears, replaced by a perpetual frown as she bears the weight of the world on her shoulders, day after day. But she remains strong and unchanged – as you realise when she tosses you a wink, catching you off guard while she passes your post by the doors.

Days and weeks fly by, and the Queen starts deploying you on assignments all over the Summerset Isles – to deal with the rising Maormer threat, and to investigate the rumours of a 'Veiled Heritance' with Razum-dar. You are familiar with the former, but the latter sets you on edge. They are a faction of Altmer purists who are plotting the assassination of the 'traitor' queen – a goal so vile and myopic, it irks you to the very core, and you vow to never let it come to pass.

You spend more and more time away from the palace in Alinor, away from the Queen's side. It is for the greater good, and you count it as a success each time you report to her personally; receiving that approving gaze and nod as she commends your efforts, and grants you access to more resources to better combat this new threat.

Of course, there are occasions when you are dissatisfied, returning to the palace with little news to report, chagrined by the fact that the rebels have escaped your grasp. This time, Ayrenn is scarce upon your return, and you are forced to leave a detailed written report on her desk, for perusal at her leisure. You spend the rest of the day wondering if the Queen is demonstrating her displeasure. Maybe her spies have reached Alinor sooner and reported your disappointing progress, robbing you of the chance to explain yourself.

But you shake your head, cursing yourself for lapsing into a moment of self-pity. The Queen is not a petty woman, and such a display of coldness is beneath her. You choose to wait for her summons until the moon rises high in the sky, when a runner catches you in the officer's quarters, bearing a note from the Queen herself. You are confused by the simple instruction written in her elegant hand, but choose to assume that it is business as usual.

Still, you think it odd as you knock on the door to her bedroom, carrying two field reports in hand. You hear her invitation and march in smartly, only to stop in your tracks, feeling more uncertain under the bemused gaze of Ayrenn. She is dressed down from her usual suit of armour, wearing only a soft, flowing gown and a simple silver circlet on her head. Ayrenn peers at you with ever-growing amusement, and you start to feel self-conscious where you stand, dressed in uniform with a handful of reports…in the Queen's bedroom.

With a casual twirl of her fingers, Ayrenn pushes the door shut with magic. She holds her hand out as per routine, and you give your reports to her, watching Ayrenn stroll over to a dresser and set the scrolls aside without reading them. Then she gestures at the round table before you, where two lit candles are surrounded by a modest array of sweets and cakes, and a pot of tea.

"Sit," Ayrenn says.

"Your Majesty?" you ask slowly, uncertainly.

"Ayrenn," she replies. "You may call me 'Ayrenn' in private."

The very idea makes you want to scream at the impropriety, so you choose to keep quiet. You walk over to the table, taking your place two seats away from your host. Ayrenn seems on the verge of laughing aloud, but she keeps it in and pours you a cup of tea – honeyberry, judging from its fragrance.

"It has been a while since we've spent some time together," Ayrenn says. "I thought we could steal a little privacy for ourselves."

You nod wordlessly, feeling utterly ill-equipped for what's obviously _not_ business.

"Are you well? I hope I haven't been running you ragged, sending you all over the islands."

"It is my duty," you say, a knee-jerk reply.

"So it is," Ayrenn says, and the two of you lapse into silence. She takes a slow sip of her tea while you leave your cup untouched, earning an unreadable look from her. Ayrenn pushes towards you a dish of small oblong-shaped treats, covered in some sort of white powder. "A snack from Elsweyr – filled with a sweetish bean paste, dusted with powdered sugar…and a pinch of moon sugar."

You blink, looking up at her lop-sided smile, and wonder if she is pulling your leg. After a moment's hesitation, you reach for the dish, your gauntlet's steel plates clinking audibly against the table. You seem to lose strength and let out a sigh, dropping your hand to the table. "Your Majes–" You catch yourself when the Queen raises her brows. A brief internal struggle later, you say, "Ayrenn."

Ayrenn smiles, brighter this time. "Yes?"

"May I know what this is about?"

She cocks her head. "Can't you guess?"

You look over the food laid out on the table, a nervous tic manifesting in the drumming of your fingers. "No."

Ayrenn sighs, a sliver of disappointment shining through…and something else? She leans against the table in silent contemplation, then asks, "What do you think of me?"

An honest question, and you wonder what would be an honest answer. "You are…an admirable woman. An excellent warrior. A wise and powerful ruler."

Her lips curve in a faint smile, but her gaze drops to the table as she clasps her hands together. "Ah. And therein lies my…" She laughs softly to herself. "I wouldn't go so far to call it my 'struggle'. A disadvantage, perhaps?"

Ayrenn looks to where you sit patiently, and her gaze softens. "Power isolates those who wield it. Since I took the throne, none have dared to approach me. Out of fear, caution…respect." She shoots you a glance in jest, and you nearly lower your eyes in deference. "Even Raz, and those who were close to me before, now stand at a distance. It is maddening," she sighs in defeat, closing her eyes briefly. "Now, do you understand why you are here?"

An answer hangs on the tip of your tongue, but you think it prudent not to assume the Queen's intent. You shake your head, and Ayrenn breathes an indulgent chuckle. Entranced, you watch as she stands smoothly from her seat, walking with exaggerated slowness, and takes the chair right next to you.

"Even a queen needs companionship, my dear." Ayrenn shifts closer to you, resting a hand on your thigh. "I admire you – your character, your dedication, your prowess in battle. I find you… _very_ attractive. And, if I have read you well, you think the same of me."

"I…" Your mouth is dry when the Queen lays you bare. You _do_ think so, and you've always been content to admire her from afar. But now, as she draws you ever closer…you think twice. It is surely a disfavour to deny her magnetism – really, it would be sacrilege to speak such an obvious lie. But–, no. _Duty._ Duty comes first.

"It would be inappropriate of me to–" Your breath catches in your throat, when a fingertip teases at your lips, stealing your words with a simple touch. It is difficult to breathe under Ayrenn's hooded gaze, her knowing smile. You are enraptured by her eyes, so clear and blue like the skies above Alinor, and you cannot tear your gaze away as she leans close. You expect her to stop, but she doesn't; her breath blends with yours, and she claims your lips softly.

Your mouth twitches under hers, then returns her kiss tentatively; you taste fear – not hers, but your own. She kisses you once, twice, and your heart skips a beat when her teeth graze over your bottom lip. Still, you remain stiff in your chair, and it makes Ayrenn chuckle when she pulls back.

Cupping your face in both hands, she murmurs, "There, the first step. Will you withdraw, or…"

She leaves the suggestion hanging in the air. Her fingers trace the sharp angle of your ear and play with its tip, coaxing a faint blush to your cheeks when she finds and caresses your weak spot. You know it's too late to hide your reaction – she wears a clever smirk when you tilt ever so slightly into her touch – but you surge forth regardless, catching her lips with your own to draw her attention away. You try to pull back when you realise you've been too rash, too rough, but Ayrenn's fingers thread through the dark locks of your hair, and gladly pulls you in.

Her warm lips and approving hum peel away your inhibitions, and you do not think twice at asking for more. So enamoured are you with her kisses, the curve of her hips and swell of her breasts beneath your searching hands, that you're only vaguely aware of your armour pieces falling to the carpeted floor. Ayrenn slides into your lap, tugs your head back and kisses along your jaw, down your neck. The pinch of teeth on skin makes your breath hitch, a low moan rising to your throat as you try to regain your senses, feeling Ayrenn's warmth closing over your lips again.

You straighten yourself with sheer will and rise to your feet, carrying Ayrenn in your arms with ease. She places a kiss on the tip of your ear and nibbles; your eyelids flutter at the teasing sensation. She purrs your name into your ear as she is carried to the bed, and you are almost reluctant to set her down.

You lay her on soft bedding and softer sheets, the hand on your nape guiding you down with her. You pause, Ayrenn's intoxicating perfume filling your nose as you stare down at your partner, at the _Queen_ who lies beneath you.

 _Just_ what _are you doing?_

"So serious," Ayrenn murmurs, pulling you down for another, slower kiss.

You feel her hands move along your back, undoing the buckles that hold your uniform together. Her fingers trail up your bare skin under the leather straps, kindling a carnal desire deep within you. Throwing caution to the wind, you dip your tongue past her lips, earning a deep moan as you explore her mouth. Your kisses turn harder, more insistent, and you see a flush on her cheeks when you move onto her throat, her clavicles, her chest. You pull her dress down along with you, exposing more skin as your lips burn a trail down her body, until you are kneeling before her, tugging the dress from her feet.

She wears nothing underneath, and you lean forward hungrily. Her gaze is locked with yours as you taste her, so sweet on your tongue that you _need_ more; you dive deeper, harder, and her head falls back in bliss, an unrestrained moan falling from her lips. Her hand finds purchase on your head once more, Ayrenn rolling her hips against your mouth. You heed her command, unrelenting, until her body is taut and trembling, her fingers tightly entwined with yours at the peak of ecstasy.

Keeping a close eye on her as she lies limp in post-coital haze, you take your time and press your lips to her flesh, kissing each spot that you've missed in your eagerness. You trace the scars that mark her toned body, and find a spot between her breasts that makes her purr. She catches her breath under your tender ministration, then guides your head back up for a kiss. Her hands loosen the last buckles on your uniform, and she pushes you onto your back, tugging your clothes off with a sly smile. You clutch at her when her fingers sink deep, curl, and thrust firmly, tearing her name from your throat again and again. She croons into your ear, urging you to let go, to be louder, and she grins when you cry _'Ayrenn'_ to the ceiling.

* * *

You fall asleep in her arms, to the soothing sensation of her fingers combing through your hair. When you wake, she greets you with a kiss and a whispered _'thank you'_. Then, all too quickly, you are dressed and take your leave of Ayrenn. You stride out of her bedroom, carefully averting your gaze from the guards stationed near Ayrenn's quarters, and tend to your duties.

It doesn't take long for whispers to spread, and your fellow soldiers who noticed your absence from the barracks that night, start asking you questions. Subtle at first, then a close friend finally shoots you a direct question in the mess hall. You shake your head mutely under the group's attention, and when they are obviously dissatisfied with your response, you march out of the hall. In anger or shame, you're not sure. But one thing you do know – you're growing protective of her. You want to shield her from these lewd rumours that started because of _you_ , when you gave into your base urges and…

You grow cold and stiff around the Queen, acknowledging her concern with curt monosyllables. You harden yourself when she summons you to her bedroom once more, but you feel yourself break when you turn away from the hand reaching for your cheek, noticing the trace of hurt flitting across her features.

"What is wrong," she asks, stepping closer to you. She doesn't try to touch you, but her proximity makes it difficult not to meet her gaze. She probes gently, carefully, and you surrender a short account of the rumours. Ayrenn surprises you with a lighthearted chuckle. "Is that it?"

She grasps your arms gently, and you freeze under her touch, conflicted. "Does it bother you? I will desist if you wish to keep your distance–"

"No." The reply flies out of your mouth before you can catch it, and you press your lips together in thought. "I shouldn't be here," you say slowly. "I cannot sully your image anymore."

"Oh, my dear," Ayrenn sighs. "My image will never be perfect."

"Then I am making it difficult–"

"No, no," she says, fingers squeezing at your arms gently. "That's not what I mean. I'm saying that rumours like this won't stop even if you stay away." She tilts her head, amused. "Did you know there is literature of me and Urcelmo? _Erotic_ ones," she explains when your brows furrow in confusion. "And he isn't the one I've taken to bed."

You huff involuntarily at how ridiculous it sounds, but then you remember hearing about it in passing before, and know it to be true. You understand Ayrenn's point, but…

She catches onto your hesitance and leaves you to your own thoughts, before her hands move down to clasp yours. "I will not force you. If you don't wish to continue, then I shan't pursue it any longer." She smiles when you finally raise your eyes to meet hers. "And if you do, I will be here."

Ayrenn closes the distance, pausing just before your lips, then gives you a chaste, lingering kiss. It is difficult, so difficult not to grip her hands tightly when she lets go. You bow and, at her nod, leave the room.

You already regret the first steps you took away from her.

* * *

Duty is what occupies your days – and the Queen's – for the next few weeks. She is kept on constant travel between the major cities of the Isles, seeking to win her people's hearts completely, to be truly accepted as the rightful Queen. You stay with her every step of the way, trusting only Urcelmo to guard the Queen when you are forced to part ways for a moment, to foil ambushes laid by the Veiled Heritance. You perform your duty wordlessly, wholeheartedly; you are back in your comfort zone – watching the Queen from a respectful distance. There are times when your gaze lingers on her, but you manage to catch yourself mid-act before anyone notices – though Ayrenn has met your eyes on a few occasions. You share no words, no smiles, not even a tiny gesture of acknowledgement. She gives you the space you need, and focuses instead on the heavy responsibility tied to the crown she bears.

You are grateful, as you have yet to sort yourself out. You are left to struggle with it on your own, unable to discuss your predicament with another, for the sake of discretion. The only support you've received is from Razum-dar, whom you chanced upon in a tavern one night. He smiles at you and buys you a drink, asking no questions even as his tail sways ever so slightly – a telltale sign of his curiosity. _'Life is never simple, is it,'_ is all he says to reveal that he knows, and you simply smile, for you agree with his sentiment.

Only when you've returned to Alinor, do you receive a summons from the Queen again. You nod wordlessly as you fold her handwritten note into a small square, leaving the runner to his own puzzlement when you walk away, not giving him a single word to pass to the Queen. Indecision tears at you as the seconds tick by, flowing into minutes until you've ignored her summons for a full hour. Steeling your heart despite the uncertainty, you bring yourself to the Queen's room once more, walking in when her voice answers your knock immediately.

Ayrenn is wearing her loose nightgown again, sitting at the table with a glass of wine in hand. She stares at you with a placid expression, then sets her glass down and stands slowly.

You bow your head. "I apologise for the delay."

"I thought you weren't coming."

Unable to hold her gaze, you avert your eyes to the table, where there is a half-finished bottle of wine and a second, empty glass.

Ayrenn clasps her hands together and approaches you, caution apparent in her slow strides. "Have you something to say?"

"I–" You choke on the first and only word that rises to your throat, and you fall silent.

She makes it easier for you. "Do you wish to keep your distance from me, as we have done for the past weeks?"

"No," you say, the answer coming so naturally on its own. "It has been…unbearable." You take another breath to speak, but it leaves you in a heavy sigh instead.

Unconsciously, you lower your head in an effort to collect yourself, and are given pause when gentle fingers grasp your chin, lifting your gaze to meet hers. Ayrenn pulls you in, and you follow willingly, eyes fluttering shut when your lips meet again. She is patient and doesn't press, waiting for you to take the next step. You tilt your head as you hold her by the hips, then circle your arms fully around her waist in an embrace. You feel feather-light touches on your nape, before a firm pressure urges you to deepen the kiss even further, tasting wine on her lips and tongue.

Both of you are breathless when you finally part for air, taking soft pants as you look deep into Ayrenn's eyes, wondering how you could've ever said 'no' to this, to _her_.

A small smile makes its way onto your lips, the weight in your chest lifting after weeks of reflection and isolation.

* * *

Ayrenn is slower this time, still cautious with you, as if she thinks the first rendezvous was too brash. It's your suspicion, but you never get around to asking her. In truth, it doesn't matter to you. It seems inconsequential, now that Ayrenn is letting her guard down around you again, more open in her affection. She is still a picture of propriety in public, of course; but somehow, she manages to find those rare, fleeting moments to give you a subtle smile, to sneak in a compliment while she introduces you to some curious dignitaries, and even casually adjust your uniform in passing. There's still talk floating about, but it is now irrelevant gossip to you, beneath your attention.

The Queen calls you to her quarters regularly, and you become intimately familiar with how the rich sheets crumple under your trembling grip, how Ayrenn's slick skin tastes on your tongue, how she _grips_ you as she writhes in sheer pleasure under your touch. And as time goes by, as you memorise each other's curves and dips and quirks, your desperate need for release and intimacy lightens. When you are not wringing your name from Ayrenn's lips in a mantra, you are content to listen to her vexations, to take into confidence her personal secrets, and share your own in return. Sometimes, neither of you feel the need to even speak, finding comfort in the other's arms as you lie under the stars, at complete ease in the privacy of her garden terrace.

Slowly, she becomes a part of your life – not just as a responsibility, no. Your thoughts often turn to her when you are left alone, and innocuous little things start reminding you of her; your bracers which she had insisted on polishing herself, the drinks on the shelves which are her favourite, copies of books that she keeps in her room, the flowers that she had paused to admire in your travels together.

You stop by the stall, recognising those few stalks on display, beside an array of common garden varieties. The florist quickly tends to you, speaking fondly of how her flowers are perfect for any occasion, and the many beautiful combinations they could create. You listen, but the admission that you're looking for a gift dies away before you try to vocalise it. Peering at the radiant petals of red and lilac, it strikes you how simple and dull they would look, beside the lavish gifts that Ayrenn has received in the past.

Besides, you don't want to impose, to _presume_.

You feel a twinge as a certain flatness settles over you. Giving the florist a nod in thanks, you hurry away from her stall, putting your whim to rest.

* * *

Cracking your eyes open, you wake to the familiar sight of Ayrenn's room, looking blearily up at the ceiling's painted mural. You blink lazily, adjusting to the morning light as you turn your head to where Ayrenn sits, lying against the headboard with a book in hand, covers gathered about her hips. Golden morning sunlight spills through the window, draping over her bare body and pale hair, enveloping her in a radiance that is surely more divine than any god's.

She thumbs a page, free hand reaching over to stroke your hair as she smiles down at you, aware of your silent adoration. Ayrenn sets the book aside as you sit up, and kisses you gently. "Good morning, love."

You raise your brows, the endearment stealing any response you had in mind. She catches onto your hesitation, your confusion, but not its reason. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes–, no. I–" You trail off uncertainly.

Ayrenn cocks her head. "You…?"

"I love you," you say clumsily, the syllables practically knocking themselves off your tongue. The air leaves your lungs, as if you'd been clubbed in the chest by a heavy mace. But the weakness seeping into your limbs dissipates at her tender smile.

"And I love you."

You wait, but she says nothing more. Nothing to cover up her affection; no _'I love you as I love all my subjects'_ , or _'I love you, but…'_

It is simple, honest, _absolute_.

"Was I too rough with you last night?" Ayrenn jests, when you're left staring at her in speechless wonder. "Have I scattered your senses so thoroughly?"

"Yes," you reply. "You have done so since the very beginning."

Her laugh is more beautiful than a prized songbird's lullaby. "And here I thought _you_ are the one who's robbed me of my senses."

"I wouldn't dare rob you of anything, my Queen." Your heart feels lighter by the second, and you can't help but mirror the bright smile on Ayrenn's lips.

"Oh? Then tell me." She takes you by the wrist, and presses your palm against her chest. "Just who is the scoundrel who's stolen my heart?"

Whatever witticism you have in mind disappears, when you break out in a rare, easy laugh. Ayrenn appears taken aback, but soon joins in as well. She fixes you with a fond gaze when you cup her cheek and kiss her deeply, ardently.

"I love you, Ayrenn," you murmur. "From the depths of my heart, with every bit of my soul."

* * *

You've never expected to be courted – not by an aristocrat, much less by the Queen herself. But here you are, receiving so many little gifts from her, that you start worrying your spartan quarters in the barracks isn't enough to hold her tokens of affection. You mention it to her, and she just laughs, pointing out that you frequently leave your smaller belongings in her room anyway – why not leave the gifts with her as well?

 _'Or better yet, move into my room,'_ she purrs mischievously, smirking at the blush on your cheeks. Your reaction is silly, you decide in retrospect, given that you've spent plenty of time in her room, with your toes curled in the sheets.

But the implications of her joke aside, you grant her that point, and leave the more extravagant gifts with her. Namely the aquamarine necklace to match hers, the bottles of wine you share together, and soul gems meant for enchantments, but you haven't the heart to use them just yet. The one gift you carry at all times, is the light and elegant sword with a curved hilt tailored to your grip alone. Its adamantium blade is engraved with runes which make it near unbreakable, and strong enough to cleave through the toughest flesh like a knife through soft butter. _'The best way I can protect you,'_ she explains, and you say the same to her, bringing a warm smile to her face.

Then Ayrenn takes to reading you poetry by candlelight, and though you were never one for such abstract and florid literature, you see that she enjoys it, and you are more than happy to recline next to her, listening to how you are a _'sweet breeze on my skin in the summer'_. You think you're learning to appreciate the poems, but the illusion is shattered when Ayrenn confesses she isn't one for poetry as well. She says she only reads the poems because you seem to admire them so, and you admit that you only listen because you love the cadence in her voice, which brings the poems to life. Both of you share a laugh at the mutual, unnecessary charade, and Ayrenn gladly tosses the books away.

Instead of poems, Ayrenn now brings up the lurid books that detail her sexual escapades with you – all fictional nonsense, of course. But they bring you no small amount of entertainment as you read the stories together, laughing at the ridiculous positions your lewd counterparts manage to twist themselves into, and you two start supplying sound effects through your uncontrollable giggles.

 _This_ , you think as you watch Ayrenn in the throes of laughter beside you, covering her mouth with a hand but failing to muffle the occasional snort in her laughs. This is perhaps the greatest gift you could ever receive.

* * *

Trouble is brewing. Across the Abecean Sea, there is an explosion of arcane energy in Cyrodiil, its effects rippling all across Tamriel. So strong is the impact that it is felt even in Summerset, where many individuals have fallen to the ground, their souls stolen and their bodies left behind as empty husks. There are scattered reports of Daedra attacks as well, but Summerset is mercifully spared from their presence…so far. More urgently, the long-brewing threats at home start to rise as well. The Maormer have gained control of Mistral, and are launching punitive attacks all along the coastlines, trying to chip away Altmer defenses. Adding to the strife is the insidious influence of the Veiled Heritance, who have spent their time underground corrupting once loyal and noble Altmer, and turning them against their own Queen.

Recognising the need to consolidate her legitimacy once and for all, Ayrenn decides to put herself through the endless rites and ceremonies that comes with taking the crown. When she travels to Tanzelwil to commune with the honoured dead and receive their blessing, you are forced to part ways with her, to combat both the Maormer and Heritance threat on the Isles. You launch your campaign against them with fervour, leaving a deep trail of blood in your wake, marking your progress through the land as you eradicate every insurgent that stands in your path, and Ayrenn's claim on the throne.

When you finally return to the Queen's side, your job is still regretfully unfinished, but she is grateful to see you nonetheless. You arrive just in time to witness her ratification ceremony, and grip the hilt of your sword tightly when Naemon steps into the Ayleid device before Ayrenn. He is transformed into a grotesque Daedra for his audacity, and cut down by the Queen's newest Eye.

Ayrenn stares at his changed body, glances at her agent in thought, then walks over to you. "I will enter the Orrery, as I swore to the people of the Dominion. I must learn whether I'm fit to lead them. And if I'm not…" Her voice trails away, her head starts to turn towards Naemon, but she jerks her gaze back to you. "If I'm changed, as my brother was… I can't become a danger to the people I've sworn to lead. Do you understand me?"

Your heart plummets, and you wish you did not understand. You swallow through a tight throat, nod rigidly, and restrain yourself from gripping onto Ayrenn's arm when she approaches the device. Ayrenn enters it, and reappears in mere moments amid a bright glow of light that fills the chamber.

She looks down at herself, flexes her hands. "I'm…myself, aren't I?"

You nod with a thin smile. The new Queen's Eye asks what she has seen in the Orrery.

"A Dominion of peace. The fair and just rule of Tamriel, beneath an Aldmeri banner." Her voice grows stronger as she recounts her vision. "A future I hope to build. And all of you, standing by my side." She casts her eyes over you, Urcelmo, and the Eye. Satisfied, Ayrenn smiles to herself, and beckons at her loyal soldiers as she makes for the exit.

"Come, help me build the future."

* * *

You travel to Alinor and stay there for a while, as does Ayrenn. You're mostly occupied in the war room, coordinating assaults and defenses against the Maormer, and discussing shadowy tactics with Razum-dar, to protect the Queen from the Veiled Heritance.

One day, as you approach her study to give a status report on the Dominion army, you halt abruptly just outside her door, and strain your ears to hear the heated argument taking place inside.

 _"Please rethink this, Your Majesty!"_ You recognise the voice of an Altmer Thalmor – that insufferably irritating but capable Canonreeve, if you remember him correctly. _"You have to consider the future of the Dominion. You need an heir to succeed you should the worst happen, and this union will dilute the royal blood–"_

 _"My mind is set,"_ Ayrenn says, and you hear the coldness in her voice – a clear indication that she is not to be swayed.

 _"Your Majesty,"_ the Canonreeve continues undeterred. _"The issue of the bloodline aside, your choice of consort is questionable."_

You freeze at his words. _Consort?_

 _"She doesn't even look the part of a proper Altmer. Her hair is dark, and so are her eyes. Her blood is tainted, Your Majesty–"_

 _"And yet,"_ Ayrenn barks, patience wearing thin. _"She is a truer Altmer than any of you can ever hope to be."_

 _"My Queen, please! On behalf of the Dominion, I beg you to reconsider–"_

 _"Enough!"_ Ayrenn's shout makes your back and shoulders stiffen, even though it isn't directed at you. The Queen is the very embodiment of composure and gentility – even in private. When her voice is raised to such a boiling pitch, bloodied bodies are sure to follow; it is fortunate that she has kept it confined to the battlefield…until now. _'You will not dictate my choices. You will either accept my decision, or pay for your arrogance and be stripped of your seat in the Thalmor!"_

Silence follows, and you choose that moment to knock on the door. You walk in and catch the Canonreeve's burning gaze, but do not grace him with even the slightest consideration. Instead, you stand at attention and nod at Ayrenn, who dismisses the Canonreeve curtly. He bows stiffly and leaves, but not before shooting you a particularly vicious and judgmental glare.

Unruffled, you continue to stand at attention as Ayrenn paces before her table in jagged steps. She takes a deep breath to calm herself down, then addresses you, "How much did you overhear?"

"Enough to know he doesn't approve of our relationship."

Ayrenn huffs. "That's only half of it."

"My Queen–, Ayrenn," you correct yourself when she cocks a brow pointedly. "I cannot stand between you and the Dominion. If I have to step back, then I–"

" _No_ ," she cuts you off, raising a hand. "Do not–, do not say that. Not you, of all people." She clenches her fists together, and you see them shaking in anger, before she forces herself to relax again with a sigh. "Dearest, I have sacrificed much to stand where I am today. I have given my time and energy, my blood and tears. My freedom. All of that, I give willingly and without regret. But you – _you_ , I will never let go."

"Ayrenn, love–" Your sigh dies away when Ayrenn turns back to the table, and you finally understand the root of her argument with the Canonreeve. A flat, polished wooden box sits open on her table. The bottom is padded with cushions covered in silken sheets, on which rests a set of matching rings. Your mouth goes dry as Ayrenn takes one ring, turning around to face you.

She takes your hand. "I'm sorry, my beloved. But after all that we've seen, all the conflict and loss we've suffered, I cannot help but ask you to indulge in my selfishness." She places a kiss on your knuckles, cradles your hand to her cheek. You stroke your fingers over her skin, and cup her face gently. "Please, love. Will you do this for me? Not for your Queen, but for Ayrenn. Do this for me, _with_ me. Please, be my wife."

You feel the ground open up beneath your feet, and Ayrenn's warmth on your palm is the only thing that anchors you in the present. Quietly, you trace her lips with your thumb, catching a soft, pleading kiss.

Gazing back into her eyes, you nod.

A dazzling smile lightens the tension in her face. Ayrenn slips the ring onto your finger reverently, and you do the same for her – the rings are to be worn until the ceremony, when you will exchange them. She kisses you deeply, and you feel her desperation, her gratitude in the press of her lips.

"Tell me, darling," she whispers. "If I _did_ order you to sacrifice your love for me, would you have done so?"

"No," you tell her. "I would keep my distance, but I would still love you from where I stand. My soul knows only to love you, and to rip that love away from me, is to shatter my soul completely."

Ayrenn chuckles quietly, giving you a peck on the lips. "And you dare claim you're not one for poetry."

"I'm not," you say. "You just inspire me so."

* * *

The ceremony is small and private, with only a handful of Ayrenn's trusted companions in attendance. It is convenient and more bearable than typical Altmer wedding processions, she says, and even the Queen cannot afford such luxuries in a time of turmoil. But you know she is also expressing her scorn for those who've dared to speak out against your union. It worries you – this may erode her firm standing among her people, but she reassures you and tells you not to agonise over it. To be honest, you take some pleasure in scandalising the nobility as well, and can't find it in yourself to feel any regret when Ayrenn puts her ring onto your finger, then draws you into a kiss before the statue of Mara, sealing your union with the goddess of love as witness.

You are now High Kinlady, and as consort of Queen Ayrenn, are treated with more deference among the people, even the Thalmor. The extra attention is rather unnerving, truth be told, but Ayrenn promises that you will get used to it over time. Meanwhile, you are grateful to find the usual, honest respect within the army, which comes from your position as a renowned Battlereeve. The military becomes a sanctuary for you, and you readily accept the duties that come with leading your troops in defense of beloved Alinor, in the name of your Queen.

But perhaps, in the eyes of your wife, you accept them _too_ readily.

The Battlereeves gathered around the war table stare at you in surprise and respect, for you've broken their heavy silence at the end of Ayrenn's question, and volunteered to lead the Dominion invasion of the Imperial City. The Queen looks to you stoically, and you hold firm under her intense scrutiny. But you know very well that her heart is as unsettled as yours, shaken by _you_. This invasion would mean escalating a war on _three_ fronts – against the Daggerfall Covenant, the Ebonheart Pact, and the Imperial Legion. The chance of success is slimmer than anyone would like admit. Survival is not guaranteed.

But Ayrenn recognises the necessity of sending her best generals into this critical battle, and she nods. "Will anyone lend their blade to this battle?"

Emboldened by your example, the rest volunteer in unison. You pick three more Battlereeves to aid you, then spend the rest of the day poring over detailed maps of the province and blueprints of the City, designing the best tactic to breach its impenetrable walls.

The Queen leaves the war room earlier to attend another meeting with the Thalmor, but you stay with the rest of the soldiers, drafting plans well into the night. By the time you reach the bedroom, Ayrenn is already there, pacing and wringing her hands restlessly. She shoots you a look of utter frustration when you approach her.

"Why did you do it? It didn't have to be you," she utters. Her nails leave white trails turning to pink over the fair skin of her hands. "It didn't have to be!" She raises a fist, brings it down against your chest – landing in a blow softened by restraint. Still, you hurt when she bows her head in helplessness, fingers digging into your shirt in a trembling grip. "Why must it be you…"

Closing your hand gently over the fist on your chest, you run a hand through her hair, and guide her gaze up to meet yours. The faint shimmer in her eyes makes you weak, but you stand strong, and press your lips to her forehead, her nose, her mouth. You feel her shiver under your touch as she seeks affirmation after affirmation, and you give willingly, utterly.

* * *

The night before you leave, she presents you with one last gift.

"I have given all I can to help you in the war. Now, I don't know what else to…" Her voice fades as she looks down at the silver circlet in her hands. It is Ayrenn's favourite one to wear, when her head doesn't bear the weight of the crown.

You bow your head for her to set the circlet about your temples, the single strand of silver meeting in a slight dip between your brows. It's a comfortable fit.

"Thank you."

She doesn't respond, long enough for you to get worried, before she surges forward and wraps her arms tightly about your shoulders. You squeeze her in a firm embrace, drawing strength from her presence as she does yours.

"I will be back," you say. "I swear."

Ayrenn nods silently, her head brushing against yours, and presses closer to you.

* * *

Razum-dar catches you the next morning, before you board the ship sailing for Valenwood. He pulls you aside to a quiet corner of the docks. "Raz knows that whatever he is going to say, you already understand _very_ well. But you will forgive this cat's boldness, and listen closely anyway."

The Khajiit hasn't lost his familiarity with you, even when you became Kinlady. You smile, and gesture for him to continue.

"You, my dear Battlereeve, are also the High Kinlady. Many see that title, and think it to simply mean that you are the Queen's consort. But Raz knows it is not so simple. He knows that the Kinlady is also the Queen's pillar of strength. He knows if anything happens to her pillar, she will break. The Queen will continue for her Dominion regardless, of course, but she will continue as a broken woman. And the Dominion cannot survive under the leadership of one whose ideals might be compromised, one whose hope has died and lost its brilliance. Do you understand?"

"Of course."

"Good!" He claps both paws heartily onto your shoulders. "Now, do Raz proud, and _maybe_ he will share with you his family's secret skooma recipe, hm?" He cackles when you shoot him a mock, scandalised look. "Ah, thank you for playing along, oh brave Battlereeve. Now go, and return to us as a hero."

* * *

The sight of the Imperial City's walls towering high above your great army, does nothing to deter you. Raising your sword, your Battlereeves give their most primal roar, and the charge is set in motion. You scale the walls with ease, nimbly dodging the concrete blocks the Imperial soldiers throw down at you and your troops. You cut down anyone not dressed in Dominion colours, hold your ground in the three-way battle against the Pact warrior and Covenant assassin, and fight for your life when a dark anchor appears above you, releasing a flood of Daedra into the chaos. You fight without hesitation, without limits, without fear.

But now, you wonder if you can return home.

You are caught in the torrent of raining rubble as the great pillars above crumble and crush any who still linger in their shadow. Something heavy impacts the side of your head, and you lose consciousness. The next thing you know, you awaken with both wrists clapped in irons, kneeling on a wooden platform guarded by leery Pact soldiers. Their mages perform experiments on you, channeling energy that burns you from within, and leaves you teetering on the edge of consciousness, blood trickling from your lip where teeth has broken skin. You see the lead mage's feral grin, then feel a hard blow to the back of your head, vision fading to black as a heavy cloth is draped over your body, robbing you of light.

When you next come to, you are still in darkness. The wooden platform rolls on its wheels, creaking and groaning at each bump over the rough terrain. You hear the march of an army around you: the hissing and grunts of Argonians, the rumbling war chants of the Nords, and the muttered prayers to the Dunmer Tribunal. Your head throbs, swims. You try to move, but your body doesn't respond. Your mind, in its sluggish emptiness, turns to your Queen, your love.

The cloth is yanked roughly away, and your head jerks back with the motion, before lolling forward in exhaustion. You are hollow, empty; metaphorically, and literally – when you realise the irons clamped around your wrists are severing your magicka, depriving you of power.

 _Ayrenn…_

Pact soldiers pull at the chains in opposite directions, dragging your wrists and arms farther apart. You sense once again, your own magicka being dominated by an external force. You want to feel anger at the violation, but are helpless to do so. You look up as the flicker of magic starts burning you from within, and you try to catch a glimpse of hope, a sign, anything. But all you can find is a grey sky heavy with clouds and thunder.

 _Ayrenn…I will…_

With a blinding flash, a thunderbolt crashes down from the sky and into your body, igniting the blood in your veins as an agonised scream tears through your throat. Your magicka is forcibly expelled from your body, raw lightning rends indiscriminately through the soldiers and crashes into the Imperial City's walls. Green strands of energy rip through sturdy stone and crush it like brittle ceramic. An entire section of the wall crumbles under the magic.

Your chains snap from the sheer force of magicka as you're blown into the air, and you crash back onto the wooden platform that was your prison, shattering it under the impact of your landing. You lose consciousness for a few long moments, before clawing your way back to the waking world.

Your body is bruised, battered, _expended_ , but you feel magicka coursing through you once again. You are whole. Rising onto your feet, you ignore your weeping muscles and straighten yourself, casting your eyes around the battlefield until you catch the surprised, then fearful gaze of the lead mage who'd experimented on you. A primal need for vengeance blends with the ice-cold desire to cause pain; your lips curve in a smirk, green lightning sparks to life between your fingers, and you unleash a thunderstorm with a fury the likes of which Tamriel has never seen.

 _Ayrenn_.

You laugh, hoarse and cracked, disintegrating legions of soldiers to dust and ashes beneath your feet.

 _Beloved, this is for you._

* * *

When the battle is over, the fields around you are scorched black, littered with burnt corpses and smouldering ash. The air stinks of seared flesh and emptied bowels, and it grows more pungent when you approach the corpse of the mage leader. You kick his body over with the tip of your boot, and the panic frozen on his charred face gives you a deep sense of vindictive pleasure. Kneeling down, you undo the strap that holds your precious sword to his belt; you resist the urge to spit at his face for daring to carry Ayrenn's gift on his being.

You push your beaten body onward, cutting down any who stand in your way to the White-Gold Tower. You climb its steps, pain lancing up your left leg, until you reach the top and find the assassin lying against a pillar. Noting the ashen shade of his peeling skin, the black mist wafting from beneath his armour – telling signs of necromancy – you grant his final wish and deliver one last cut to his neck, with his own broken blade. You leave the blue ribbon in his dying grip when you recognise the look in his eyes, sympathy for him surging to the surface.

You continue your search about the top of the Tower, but a steel helmet is all you can find of the Nord warrior. You assume that you are the last one standing, and find your way back to the Dominion camp, the soldiers greeting you with surprise and delight – apparently they assumed that you were dead.

The Dominion army holds tentative control over the Imperial City for the next grueling weeks, your numbers whittled down by frequent attacks – from both mortal soldiers and Daedra. Your scouts inform you that they come from Molag Bal's domain in Oblivion, but none of you can fathom _why_ his forces are invading Nirn. And before you can dig deeper, you receive a single order from Queen Ayrenn – to withdraw your forces from the Imperial City.

You're mystified, but relieved as well. Your soldiers are utterly exhausted, and you've lost two of three Battlereeves. With a heavy heart, you leave a respectable contingent in Cyrodiil to hold your territory as ordered, and appoint the last Battlereeve as its commander. He salutes you bravely, and ensures no foe follows you across the border into Valenwood, from which you sail back to Alinor.

Falling to one knee before Queen Ayrenn, you bow your head low in shame as you report your failure. But she holds you by the shoulders, and raises you to your feet.

"It was an impossible battle," she says, in the Queen's calming tone. "And you lived to fight another day, to fight for the Dominion. You have done well."

You cannot refute her in front of the Thalmor, and settle for keeping your head bowed, unable to look Ayrenn in the eye.

In the privacy of your bedroom, Ayrenn tries to talk to you while you pace back and forth, but you cannot put words to the anger, the resentment, the burning desire to bring _hurt_ down on the Pact soldiers for your torture, to make the Daedra die screaming like their victims.

You clutch at your head, memories of battle and Ayrenn's voice fighting for a place in your ears. Your restraint snaps under the endless, breaking pressure you've endured. Grabbing Ayrenn's hand on your shoulder, you shove her roughly against the wall and crash your lips to hers, tasting copper on the tip of your tongue as her hand finds purchase on your head, pulling you impossibly closer. She lets you grip the reins and dictate the pace. You hitch her onto your hips, tossing her carelessly onto the bed. Your teeth sink into her body, nails dragging hard over her flesh, until you hear her reflexive whimper when you finally break skin. Guilt clogs your throat as you look down at the small beads of red welling up in the bite, but her hand on your cheek anchors you before you are lost again.

She pulls you down for a soft kiss, then pushes you onto your back, resting a finger over your lips when you try to speak. "Shush. Let go for tonight," she whispers in your ear, fingers trailing ever lower, dipping in. "I'll take care of you."

* * *

Ayrenn helps to put you back together, holding and singing to you after a nightmare, talking you through panic attacks when you feel the cut of irons into your wrists and the ghost of a flame scorching through your veins. You clutch tightly to her behind closed doors, taking strength from Ayrenn's arms around you, saving it for when you have to walk among your soldiers as the unflappable battlereeve you are.

You're recovering as quickly as you can, to serve the Queen when she needs your blade by her side. But a surprise arrives in the form of Ayrenn's trusted agent – the recruit you remember from the Queen's ratification ceremony. 'The Vestige', the agent is now called; the prophesied one who will stop Molag Bal's Planemeld, and save Tamriel from being dragged into Coldharbour.

She convinces Ayrenn to convene with the leaders of the other two alliances, and aid the Fighters and Mages Guild in their efforts to thwart the Planemeld. So you set sail with the Queen's forces despite her insistence that you stay behind, determined to ensure her safety in what is sure to be a wolf's den.

On the ship, you notice the Vestige staring at Ayrenn oddly, and you ask her why. She replies that she has seen possible futures of the Dominion, then grows hesitant in giving you more details from that point.

"The Queen will not survive in one possibility," is all the Vestige says, but it's enough to chill you to the bone.

Your hand grips the hilt of your sword unconsciously, as you gaze at where Ayrenn stands beside the captain's wheel, with her arms crossed and her eyes fixed on the horizon.

 _It will not come to pass_ , you vow.

* * *

Negotiations on the island of Stirk go as well as you expect: no leader is willing to budge from their positions, and the talk for a temporary truce falls into petty arguments. You stand rigidly behind Ayrenn, clenching your jaw as you suppress the urge to sink your blade into the other leaders' throats, each time they hurl an insult at your Queen.

All of a sudden, your simmering anger is given release when Molag Bal himself makes an appearance, and summons Daedra onto the grounds. You lunge for Ayrenn instinctively, yanking her back before a jagged Daedric sword bites into her flesh. You cover the Queen's retreat from the field of utter chaos, and refuse to let her join you when you leap back into battle, helping to eradicate the invading force.

At the battle's end, the Vestige tries to bring the leaders together again, but cooperation is impossible. The guilds decide to venture into Coldharbour themselves, and the three alliances part ways without further bloodshed.

You escort Ayrenn back to her ship and sail for home, but she confronts you in the cabin during the journey, demanding why you held her back during the Daedra invasion. The argument is moot, of course – she understands her own importance as Queen, and your duty to keep her safe. Her frustration stems from how her hands are tied by the responsibilities of her station, but it is a struggle that she is familiar with, and she lets go of it quickly.

* * *

A few months later, a change sweeps through the land. Aside from the Daedra's sudden disappearance from Tamriel, the change is subtle, manifesting as the little things in life – a crisper air, a lighter sky, the song of birds joining in the merry singing from commoners. News of the Vestige's success at ending the Planemeld reaches the Summerset Isles, and the conflict in Cyrodiil seems to come to a pause, as if the people were taking a single, concerted breath of relief.

But the peace doesn't last long. The Dominion, Pact, and Covenant fall back into war, fighting bloody battles and laying repeated siege to the Imperial City. Ayrenn conducts the war from Alinor with your help, coordinating troop movements to break through enemy borders, when the unthinkable happens.

The Thalmor rise up against Ayrenn with the support of the Council of Alinor, denouncing her for 'leading the Altmer people astray', and force her to abdicate the throne at the tip of their spears. The Queen doesn't back down, but she is forced to flee the palace in Alinor, with you and Urcelmo in tow. Razum-dar catches up with your little group of loyalists, leading you into one of the Queen's Eye hideouts by the shore to evade capture.

Ayrenn is _furious_ , and her fist crashes into the cave's wall several times before she regains her senses. Then, with unbelievable speed, she cools into a calculative state, and starts planning to retake Summerset.

The rightful Queen shall _not_ be denied her throne.

* * *

Merely gathering the remaining loyalists together takes too much time. The rebels have complete control of the island, driving out non-Altmer from the Isles, spewing vile lies about Ayrenn, and combing the entire land for signs of her. She stays in hiding for a few months, stealing away supplies and equipment from caravans heading for Alinor, swaying the hearts of commoners and convincing them to join her cause. When the small army is ready, she leads them in guerilla attacks on the newly-formed Thalmor army, establishing her presence and starting a civil war.

You stand by her as always, working with her to reclaim her birthright. You support her without question, and will dive into battle at her command without second thought. Although, there are times when she orders you _not_ to fight, and you are forced to stay back and grit your teeth, while she prepares for yet another battle.

"Your pauldrons are ridiculous," you mutter unhappily, strapping said pauldrons onto her shoulders.

"You've said that many times."

"And yet, you still won't change them."

"Because you'll stop grumbling if I do." Ayrenn's lips curve in a lop-sided smile, and when you finish securing her last piece of armour, she kisses you gently.

"Fight well," you murmur, hugging the scuffed armour that protects her body.

"Rest well," she replies, touching the bandages wrapped around your abdomen, which is still healing from the litany of wounds you'd suffered in the last battle.

"I'll rest when you return safely."

Ayrenn cocks her head. "Fair enough."

* * *

But when she returns, having retaken a city in the four days she was gone, Ayrenn worries you enough that you cannot rest easy.

You find her in the bedroom at the mayor's mansion, staring at the wall from where she sits by the fireplace. Out of her battle armour, she looks smaller, more vulnerable. Ayrenn looks up at you, gaze haunted, and stands from the chair. She lays her head on your shoulder, arms circling around your waist in an embrace, and you squeeze her tight.

"May I confide something in you?" Ayrenn says, head still on your shoulder.

"Anything."

"This war between the three banners will not be won in our time."

You pause, wondering where this is coming from. Ayrenn lifts her head, gaze still lowered. "The Dominion might lose. Or they'll be locked in a stalemate. Maybe even sign another futile truce. But this war will draw on, longer than our lifetimes."

Frowning in concern, you ask gently, "Why do you say that?"

"Because I know."

"How?"

Ayrenn gives you a wan smile. "Maybe I saw it in a dream. Maybe I had a hallucination while I was exhausted."

"Then rest, beloved." You caress her cheek, and she leans into your touch. "I will watch over you."

She gazes at you as if you were the world itself, and your heart aches at the exhaustion in her eyes, the thinner frame of her face. "What will I ever do without you, my dear?"

* * *

You are betrayed.

Urcelmo leads Ayrenn to the city of Lillandril to meet with a group of resistance fighters, only to reveal that the 'resistance fighters' are Thalmor soldiers, lying in wait until Urcelmo signals the start of the ambush.

The Battlereeve, for all his skill with blades, cannot hope to be a match for Ayrenn. But even as the Queen drives her sword into his gut, Urcelmo has played his part – distracting Ayrenn long enough for two other soldiers to bring her down. You watch the two blades pierce through her chest, a scream tearing your throat raw, as your magic splits the air and rips the soldiers asunder. You grab Ayrenn before she falls to the ground, her hands clutching onto you as blood spews from her lips. With another blast of magic, you knock the rest of the soldiers back and run straight for your horse, retreating from the city with the remaining loyalists on your tail.

Ayrenn grunts and moans in agony with each gallop the horse takes, jostling the blades still embedded in her body. You hold her tight, telling her over and over to hold on, that she'll be safe soon. She'll be fine.

But fate twists your words into lies.

Your world comes to a standstill when the healer emerges from Ayrenn's room, face grave, and shakes her head in defeat.

You stand stoically by the side while Ayrenn imparts her last orders to the loyalist officers, then dismisses them. Raz lingers behind the group, before screwing his eyes shut and walking out the door as well.

Going to sit beside her, you hold the hand she raises to you, throat tightening painfully at the smile on her pale lips. Still trying to be brave – just for you.

"Do not blame yourself, love." She tucks a lock of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers, then touches your cheek. "I have one last order for you. Will you accept?"

You nod, afraid to speak.

"Do not stay and fight a hopeless battle. I want you to run. Hide. Live. Live away from this war. Live for yourself. You have given too much to the Dominion. You have given too much to me." She presses her thumb to your lips when you start to protest. "My only regret for you, is that I could never give you the happiness you deserve. Not as a queen with a war to fight. I thank you for your loyalty, your love. But it is time for you to stop fighting, my beloved. I hereby release you from the Dominion, and any obligation that ties you to it. I want you to live for yourself. And if you can find it in your heart – live for me, as well."

Her voice is growing weaker, and she has to pause and take a breath. She forces a smile back to her lips, when you press her hand to your chest, your tight and quivering grip telling her all she needs to know. "Will you do one last favour for me, love?"

You nod again.

"Kiss me. I want your warmth to be the last thing I feel, when I depart a world turned cold and cruel."

Tears fall from your eyes, and you kiss her. Soft, tender, aching. You give her another kiss, hoping to coax her back, but she doesn't return it.

Her eyes are soft when you gaze down at her in silent plea. "I love you," she says, and her last breath mingles with yours.

You stare at her, tears dripping silently onto her face, waiting for her blank eyes to turn back to you, her lips curving in an impish grin as she teases you for being so gullible. But she doesn't move, and you crumble.

Resting your head on her shoulder, you weep for the loss of your Queen, your love, your life, your _soul_. It is a long while before you raise your head, the last of your tears cutting down your cheeks, your heart utterly barren as you look upon Ayrenn's face again. With hollow fingers, you wipe away the moisture on her skin, and close her eyes.

Placing one last kiss on her lips, you rasp, "Go in peace, love."

* * *

Years go by, and the loyalists have disappeared off the map – as ordered by the late Queen Ayrenn. They scatter – throughout the Summerset Isles, to Valenwood, to Elsweyr – and slowly gather strength, so they may return one day and fight to honour the memory of the Queen.

For your part, you've followed her orders…mostly. The loyalist remnants still keep in touch with you, traveling into the secluded woods to seek your counsel. But the truth is, there's nothing much that can be done in the short run. So you slowly distance yourself from them, paring down the frequency of their visits, forcing them to learn how to work without you. They do, with such efficiency that it makes you proud, and you know it is time.

 _Survive_ , is what you tell them last. Survive, and carry the true Dominion with you, so that the Queen's dream shall live and be reborn in a future enlightened enough to accept it.

You time your visit to Ayrenn's grave, just one day before a Dominion agent would arrive at your home as per routine. This time, they would find the door unlocked, and a note waiting for them on the table.

On your belt is a leather pouch, containing a single potion that you've brewed just for this occasion. You've practiced this recipe in your mind over the years, but have never brought it into fruition until now.

You walk to the cliff wall facing the sea, dispelling the illusion that hides the cave entrance, and walk in. Casting a spell to restore the illusion, you approach the headstone that marks Ayrenn's grave. You kneel before her and press two fingers to your lips, then touch them to the name etched in stone. You stay there for hours, staring at her grave as you search for the hint of a spark within yourself, but find none.

Your purpose is done. You still have your life, but its meaning is gone. Long gone, reduced to ashes and buried with Ayrenn years ago. Your heart is as dead as your love.

Taking the small flask from your pouch, you uncork it and take a whiff of its foul scent. You wrinkle your nose, but bring the flask to your lips, drinking down the noxious and strangely sweet concoction. In doing so, you finally disobey the Queen's last order for you.

No, you will not live this life any longer.

Your true happiness lies with Ayrenn, and it shall be yours soon.

* * *

 **A/N:** Honestly I haven't finished the Dominion's quest line yet, and just jumped onto the angst boat after reading spoilers lmao

Might write a happier version after finishing the quests, and maybe some snippets in the meantime.


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